


Reunited

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Geralt misses him. He’s not going to sit here and say he doesn’t. Jaskier’s smile, the swoop of his hair, his fingers and their touch, his voice. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs or how his words lull Geralt to sleep at night.Kaer Morhen has never seemed to empty.--Geralt misses his bard. As soon as they're reunited, Geralt isn't that keen on letting him go again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 668





	Reunited

Jaskier’s hands are deadly things. Fingers pluck expertly at lute strings lulling gentle ballads and rowdy polkas alike. Adorned with rings, those same fingers card through Geralt’s hair during baths. They skim over long-healed and faded scars, and pick at knit cuts back together again.

He doesn’t realise how much he misses Jaskier’s hands until the bard is whisked away for another season of lecturing at the Academy. Winter is creeping in. The call back to Kaer Morhen dusts his ear with every chilling breeze that snips past him. Home is familiar and a shelter from the worst winter winds. He’ll have crackling hearths and Vesemir’s food to fill his stomach.

It doesn’t stop him lingering slightly too long in his baths, wondering idly about the bard and how he’s fairing. Well, he isn’t out in the wilds. That’s his only solace during the nights. His bard is behind high city walls and cooped away in an Academy of like-minded people.

Geralt misses him. He’s not going to sit here and say he doesn’t. Jaskier’s smile, the swoop of his hair, his fingers and their touch, his voice. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs or how his words lull Geralt to sleep at night.

Kaer Morhen has never seemed to empty.

His brothers worry, for a time. Maybe a kind of melancholy washed over their brother. No matter how they tempted him – food, drinking, fighting, Gwent – nothing seemed to shrug it off of his shoulders. They stayed stoop and sloping, even as he puttered about with his daily chores.

And then they discovered the reasoning behind it.

“All this pining,” Lambert grumbled into his tankard of ale, “for some bard.”

Eskel clicked his tongue at him. “Leave him be,” he muttered, glancing over to Geralt who sat nearby, sharpening his swords for the tenth time that season.

Vesemir always had things for them to do. Mortar needed to be made, and stones along the walls had to be repointed. Their horses had to be tended to daily, with Geralt riding Roach through the trails around the forest engulfing the keep.

He was grateful for it. Chores made the already short days blink past. The nights were different. He awoke to an empty and cold bed, and his chest tightened at the realisation that would wash over him that his bard was a kingdom away. Winter usually blinked by for him. Most years slipped by and he didn’t notice at all. But now, the short days seem long, and the long nights never seem to end. He looks out of his bedroom window out on to the mountainous pass and wonders if the sun will ever rise to signal that the next day has come.

* * *

_Meet me in the Three Crowns Inn when spring comes._

He kept the note with him all winter. The _Three Crowns_ was in Redania, and an inn they had boarded in before. Memories well in his core as he swings up on to Roach’s back and heads off for the year. Lambert and Eskel will follow. Their paths rarely cross, but after spending a whole season with them, it’s time to return to the bard. The inn is where they first kiss. The image of it sits in front of him, as if he could reach out and dust his fingers along Jaskier’s jaw.

Roach feeds off of him. He’s excited to see Jaskier again; the blood in his veins sparking and trembling with the feeling of it. The mare bounces with each step. She pulls at her bit and the reins, wanting to rush forward into a gallop along the dirt roads. And for a moment, he thinks about letting her. Jaskier is a reach away.

By the time he reaches the inn, he almost flattens anyone standing in his way. He hands Roach over to a stableboy with a quick harrowing glare that his horse better be taken care of.

When he steps into the building, the lulling warmth of the inn washes over him. Spring is still young and new, with winter winds begrudgingly trying to hold on by lashing out from the mountains. His skin still prickles with the cold, but the sun manages to slip out from the darkened clouds for a few moments each day. The familiar hum of tavern chatter is something he’s gone without for a season. He blocks it out. It’s useless noise. And the stares he gets out of the corner of people’s eyes, he ignores them too.

Golden eyes scan over the small crowd gathered in the inn. Most don’t bother with him. Whether or not they spot him out of the corners of their eyes and make their peace with the fact that he’s here, he’ll never know. They keep to their meals of stew and bread and tankards of ale. The scent of it alone has his stomach rumbling.

But he isn’t here for food. Food can wait. People churn around the tavern, hailing barmaids and getting up to leave. Amongst it all, he spots him. His bard, resting an arm against the bar and with a lute slung over his shoulder. A charming smile is curled along his lip as he talks to the barmaid, probably luring a lodging and meal out of her. Geralt’s heart stutters a beat. It’s only been a handful of months since he last saw the bard, but seeing him again, washed in early spring light, has his breath catching in his throat.

His feet can’t carry him across the tavern quick enough.

* * *

Jaskier’s moan drifts towards the ceiling. “Oh gods,” he arches, “I’ve missed this.”

A short laugh huffs against the length of Jaskier’s neck. “Me,” Geralt breathes, “or my cock?”

Some choked off noise escape’s Jaskier’s throat. “Would you be terribly offended if I said both?” his gaze is almost glassy as he turns his gaze up to the wooden rafters beyond Geralt’s head. Looking at the Witcher, at _golden eyes_ , it’s too much. Geralt’s own body is thrumming, sparks nipping at every nerve and muscle in him at being back inside his bard again. The familiar warmth tightly gripping him has his breath starting to catch in his throat.

His eyelids flutter shut as Geralt’s hips move. A war wages within his mind. Quick, hard thrusts or long, languid ones. Should he just set his teeth against Jaskier’s jaw and fuck him into the mattress, or wring out every noise and shudder he can from the body underneath him. Bleary blue eyes watch him. The same crisis swirls behind them.

Either way, he’ll have to leave money for the poor innkeep downstairs – though, he suspects that she’s heard all sorts over the years.

Jaskier tilts his head, letting Geralt assault the columns of his throat. His breath hitches at the first rasp of teeth. His whole being was set alight the moment their skin brushed; simply tugging and hauling shirts and breeches off of each other while trying to stumble back to a bed.

Geralt didn’t particularly care if he took his bard up against the room’s door, or even on the floorboards. He just needed him.

Their hips meet in sharp and harsh slaps. The steadying hand Geralt sets on his bard’s hip keeps him pinned; not that Jaskier would want to be anywhere else. His mouth hangs open as stuttering groans and half-attempts of Geralt’s name tumble out between kiss-bruised lips. Geralt moves his hand, catching the back of Jaskier’s thigh and hiking his leg up higher.

A louder, stronger noise punches out of the bard, slapping against the rafters overhead. “I’ve missed you so much,” Jaskier whimpers, winding his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and holding the Witcher close.

Geralt parts with Jaskier’s neck. The bard looks truly fucked out of it, and while his blood is ablaze and he’s as deep as he can be within the other man, he still has some fight left in him. Geralt hauls Jaskier further down the bed, leaning over him to almost bend him in half. His cock gets deeper, reaching that spot in the bard that has him squirming and choking on his own breath and wondering what in the name of all of the gods to do with his hands—

“I didn’t touch myself all winter,” Geralt rumbles. It comes right out of the hollows of his chest. His usual rasping voice drops into something as deep as the Skellige seas. “I wanted to keep it for you. There were moments, times in the night, where I remembered you and gods did I want to. I missed everything about you.”

Jaskier’s eyes squeeze shut. If he looks at the Witcher, the coil tightening within his core will snap. And he doesn’t have a Witcher’s stamina to keep going—

Geralt reaches down, carding his fingers through the bard’s hair and tilting his head back, exposing his neck. His throat bobs with every stolen breath.

“But I knew that the second I saw you again, I’d lose myself.”

A laughing sort of sound rattles out of Jaskier. “And you did, you brute.” He opens his eyes. Blearily blue orbs lock on to Geralt’s gold. Fair, Geralt _might_ have been one step away from hauling Jaskier over his shoulder and running to the nearest available room. But in his defence, it’s been a long fucking winter.

Geralt fucks in a little more harshly, grunting at the sharp slap of their hips. Jaskier’s skin will be littered with bruises tomorrow. The thought of it sends a shiver shaking down his spine. The bed groans and creeks and juts against the wall. The fact that their neighbour next door hasn’t barged in to tell them to knock it off is a blessing in itself. Geralt sets his hands on either side of Jaskier’s head. Sweat sheens both of them, souring the air as it mixes with the familiar musk of both men. Having Jaskier face him, it’s a lot. Eyes that have oceans swirling in them and puffed lips spilling siren’s words. He’s half a mind to turn Jaskier around and ram him into the mattress instead—

The bard sets a hand around one of Geralt’s wrists.

His heel catches the small of his back, and urges on thrust after thrust. With each slap of hips, the bard’s groans only thicken. “You have a whole winter to make up for, Witcher,” he grunts, tilting his head back and lounging in the pleasure wracking through him. “Better put your back into it.”

A growl wrangles its way up Geralt’s throat. “Be careful of what you wish for, bard.”

“I’ve been celibate all damn season,” Jaskier grunts, lifting his chin in challenge. It urges Geralt’s teeth to show. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

He doesn’t have to worry about Jaskier finding someone else to do it. The first night the bard fell into his bed set himself to stay there for the rest of their lives. And with Geralt’s mutations and Jaskier’s elven blood coursing through the both of them, it’ll be a long lifetime.

So Geralt leans forward, snapping his hips against the bard’s, grunting with each tremble his walls give around his cock. His bard is always so warm and tight, no matter how many times he wrings pleasure out of him. He wants to kiss the bard’s lips. They’ve been bumbling against each other, forming moans and lulling words for a while now. But if he kisses the bard, then he loses the man’s sounds. And he loves Jaskier’s sounds.

So he sets about wringing more out of him.

Jaskier’s neglected cock leaks between them; an angry shade of red and dripping precum along his abdomen. He hasn’t been tempted to touch it yet. Though Geralt has wrung pleasure out of the bard before without having to touch it. The thought of doing it again has his blood sizzling in his veins and his hips quickening.

Sharp, deep thrusts that brush that spot in the bard that has him almost folding in on himself. It’s an assault of pleasure, and Jaskier’s hold on his wrist tightens. The ripple of muscle through his bared arm and the white that claims his knuckles; Geralt stares at it. “Fuck me,” the bard groans, shifting his legs to open his hips, “fuck it out of me, _please Geralt_. I’ve missed you so much. I kept myself saved just for you.”

His walls tremble around Geralt’s cock. It’s warm and wet and tight and Geralt can feel something building in his core. He grunts.

Jaskier’s bleary eyes meet his. “Are you going to come?” he lulls. A proper siren, Geralt’s bard, soft and seducing with his eyes and words, but wicked too. The coil only tightens quicker. The edge of Jaskier’s lip twitches in a smirk. “Are you going to fill me up? You haven’t come all winter; I bet there’s going to be a lot. _Yes, right there_ —Come for me, Geralt. Come in me. Mark me up, make me yours—”

The Witcher catches the bard’s lips in a bruising kiss. His hips stutter and press against Jaskier’s when pleasure crests and washes over him. Distantly, he’s aware of wetness splashing between them. A groan wrangles out of Geralt’s through at the thought of making his bard come untouched.

The kiss softens. Jaskier sighs against Geralt’s lips, lifting his hand to his cheek and angling him for a deeper one. Their tongues glide against each other until a need for breath has them parting. A loose, lazy smile sits curved along Jaskier’s lips. He lounges against the plush mattress of the bed, slightly damp from sweat and imprinted with their scents. The legs the bard has hooked around Geralt’s hip don’t budge. If anything, they bring him closer.

Not that he could ever part with Jaskier. Not after being without him for an entire season.

Winters would drift by soon quickly in Kaer Morhen during most years; Vesemir loading chores on to him as soon as his foot fell inside the gate. But this winter was long. And cold. And lonely; despite three other wolves being with him.

A warm, gentle hand brushes his cheek. Geralt blinks as Jaskier lets his cheek rest in the bard’s hand. “I really did miss you,” Jaskier rasps, his voice stretched out and thinning. A loose smile still sits on his lips. “ _You_ , you know. Not just your cock.”

A light laugh shakes through the Witcher. “I know,” he says, nuzzling into Jaskier’s palm. He tries to clamp down on the shiver about to run through him when the bard brushes his thumb lightly over the arch of Geralt’s cheek. It’s soft and so utterly Jaskier. His touches steal breaths and thoughts. Geralt’s throat bobs. “I missed you too.”

Eventually, Geralt gets too soft to stay inside the bard. A noise escapes from his throat at having to slip out of him, but Jaskier soon gets his arms around Geralt and brings him down to rest on his chest. Sweat and cum stick them together, but he can’t find himself caring at all.

Gentle fingers card through his hair. “Let’s winter together next time, hmm?”

Jaskier’s voice is nothing but a murmur, lulling him off to sleep.

Before he can slip under, he hums, looking up at his bard. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs;   
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;   
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


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